


No Kings, No Castles

by TiredKazooNoises



Series: DreamSMP Gods and Mortals AU [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: A lot of creative liberties, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Dissociation, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm learning how tags work, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, SMPEarth references, SMPLive references, Trauma, War, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, a distinct lack of communication, but Wilbur is like the focus, but no one stays dead, the biggest villain of all is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredKazooNoises/pseuds/TiredKazooNoises
Summary: There has been a world before you, buried in the dirt beneath your feet, etched in stone in glitter and gold, lingering in song and whispered story from an origin which no one can recall and yet all instinctively remember. There has been a world before you, and there shall be a world after you, and there are a thousand worlds thriving just out of sight-- parallel lines that will one day cross, merge, and diverge once again. This is not poetry or sacrament, it is fact. And existing beyond fact are the gods, who create and destroy and reshape in their image.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: DreamSMP Gods and Mortals AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026487
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. I think this time I'm dying

**Author's Note:**

> Things I want to make Clear before we start:  
> 1.) This is a story about the characters of the dreamsmp rp, not the Actual People behind them. And if any one of those Actual People express discomfort at this fic (whether in specific or just the details of it), I will immediately take this story down. We respect Content Creators' Boundaries in this house.  
> 2.) This is my first time writing a fic, so bear with me. I've got a lot of ideas, many of them yet to be fully fleshed out, and some convoluted Lore, but I wanted to start posting to get it out there. The only reason I'm posting this when my outline isn't solid yet is because I realized "oh, if I end up not liking this and wanting to edit it or rewrite it at any point, I can just. Do that." So consider most of this to be like. A first draft that I may or may not tweak later.  
> 3.) Some characters may be ooc. I mainly watch Wilbur and Techno and have watched some vids from Tommy and Tubbo, but I do not have the time to watch Everything from Everyone and am a bit unfamiliar with some of the other characters and content creators. I have been rewatching some Wilbur streams and taking notes for this fic, and I plan on watching more things from different perspectives but just bear in mind that there will be some Creative Liberties (though I think that's to be expected with any AU fic, really).  
> 4.) No update schedule. I do not control the creative impulses.  
> 5.) Literally any feedback-- kudos, comments, bookmarks-- will make me explode into a cloud of confetti.

There was a chill in his bones and a fire in his veins, and his brain couldn't decide which to focus on. As if a kid was flipping a switch for fun, a strobe light of temperature--

_Lungs screaming for air, sodden clothes weighing him down, reaching up towards the faintest glimmer of lightning flashes filtering through the water._

_Face after terrified face, the fearless openly defiant, an arrow piercing his heart._

_Weightlessness before the pull of gravity, the inevitable fall from a push, heat at his back warning him of his fate, triumphant eyes staring down from above._

_The feel of explosions colliding against his body, shattering his bones, crushing his insides. The gleam of the spark of the friction of sword against sword. The sickening feeling of change. Of knowing something is happening and letting it happen, of laughter petering off, of having the rug pulled out from under his feet as voices grow sharp, weapons are whet, and stares pierce his flesh-- so many eyes on him, weighing him down with their expectations and already casted judgements, setting the stage and shining the spotlight on who he'd become and the shadow of his former self lingering behind him-- a performance, an exhibit, stay behind the red rope and no touching, and he didn't even care that that was who he was now-- who **was** he?_

He was so… cold.

_A hand in his hand, guiding him as he glides through the air. The brush of feathers as wings curl around him, as he's embraced by a set of sturdy arms._

_A back pressing up against his back, a monotone voice in his ears, a sword that steps in to cover him where he falters. His thumb brushing over a sparkling gem, setting it into place in a shining gold crown, his hands placing the crown back in its spot atop soft pink hair._

_A bright, smiling blur of constant motion, eyes with such unrestrained admiration. A cheerful headache, a symbol of hope for the future. The feel of fabric as he knots a red tie around another's neck, a whiny voice that he could only laugh at._

_Strings biting gently into his finger pads as they dance along the fretboard. A melody in his heart given life, a chorus of laughter and chatter and attempts to sing along._

_A fish in the ocean and the feeling of freedom._

_An end of something horrible and fantastic, what he wanted with one breath and rejected in the next, a duet tapering off into a solo--_

_"You just threw it all away, too… I'm outta here, Wilbur Soot."_

It was so… hot.

And he was Wilbur Soot… right?

Everything was so.

Quiet.

The world around him blurred into a smudged palette of greens and browns. If he concentrated, he could feel each step of his feet against the earth, he could feel the breeze against his face and the fabric of his clothes against his skin. But he couldn't concentrate on that for long. How could he? He was plagued with thoughts of ice and fire and faces he couldn't remember and places he'd never been, thoughts crashing in like a wave and pulling back, the ebb and flow of the tide. It took all his effort to cling onto his one rock, his name, Wilbur Soot.

Wilbur Soot.

His breath came in short puffs and gasps, wisps of air filling his lungs just enough to keep him moving, though he stumbled and staggered and sweat and shivered.

Wilbur Soot.

He brushed past people, strangers but not the ones he couldn't remember, faceless, nothing but eyes. Staring at him.

Wilbur Soot.

Some looked at him-- this odd, sickly, deranged man-- with pity, with sympathy, a hand twitching to reach out and comfort though none made that move. Some looked at him with a passing curiosity, a question on the tips of their tongue. And some looked at him with disgust, with fear, for humans can be wretched creatures who bristle at the sight of… the atypical.

But all he knew was that they were looking. They were looking, and it didn't matter why or how, all that mattered was the weight of their stares. The pressure of it-- he was sure it gripped his shoulders, bruised his flesh, pressed down to his very marrow and hoped that he cracked.

So he turned away. He let himself stray from the path, let himself wander until his footsteps did not echo with the dull thump of planks or cobble but the soft thud of dirt and rustle of grass. Until buildings warped into trees, until the shroud of leaf shade consumed him, until he was far past sight.

He was Wilbur Soot.

… But in his retreat, the citizens he'd passed shared a glance. Some resigned to the fate they'd witnessed, some relieved they needn't get involved, yet each of them knowing the strange, haggard man could not possibly survive in those woods, the forest even Dream would not tread. No.

He was a dead man walking.


	2. I have only two emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha. Fundy traumatic backstory go brrrrrrr.

Fundy was not a child. Sure, he was young, but twelve was practically thirteen and everyone knew teens were practically adults, so… Well… Maybe it was better to say: Fundy could not afford to be a child.

Maybe it was better to say: Fundy had never been allowed to be a child.

At birth, his role was set, his fate already paved, tied inextricably to a god that did not live in his world. A god that likely didn't know of him and his kin and their offerings. A god whose name was lost yet whose visage lived on in gold painted murals and the imprint of words on parchment and the songs his mother sang as they watched the sunrise from the river banks.

There was an inconsistency to the depictions. Their god was both tyrant and trickster, laughter and fear, unity and divide. Their god was the god of Discord and Harmony. And that had always unsettled him, even when his mother whispered reassurances in his ear. She said harmony and discord were two sides of the same coin, that both had merits. She listened to all of the tales of their god's cruelty and still believed them outweighed by his benevolence. She had an unshakable faith in his goodness.

Fundy did not. How could he? His kin's worship was strict, their methods… questionable.

As soon as a child was born, they were made a vassal of their god through sacred ceremony. They obtained a spark of their god's power in exchange for allowing their god to use their humanity as fuel-- that's how it worked. Gods were beings who needed to feed humanity to the pyre of their power, but strong flames required great fuel. And his kin were kindling. Everyone from his mother's generation and after had been assigned that role, forced into it at younger and younger ages. And though their spark was small, though their god never consciously drew on their humanity, his power still simmered. It burnt away at them whilst their bodies were still developing. It changed them.

Fundy could remember having pale hands with blunt nails, smooth skin on his face, his mother running her fingers through his auburn hair. But one day his nails sharpened to a fine point. One day his skin was covered in a fine peachy fuzz, and that fuzz grew into a silky fur coat. One day his auburn coloring grew redder, a set of pointy ears sprouted a top his scalp, flesh and bone slowly morphed into new shapes, utterly inhuman. Until he was more fox than man. That was the mark of his god.

His mother would wipe his tears away with her damp fingers, her webbed hands. She'd keep her gills just barely under the water's surface, straining herself to hug him as he sat at the edge. The scales that speckled her skin got caught in his fur.

She would tell him not to hold it against their god, not to bear grudges. He was unknowing, he was complex, really it was their kin who were at fault for taking his presence and warping it, speaking when he couldn't and using him as justification for their own twisted actions. But she knew the truth and so should he-- they could feel who their god truly was. She felt him in her heart when she sang her love, when she sang of her homeland, of her son, of the beauty of nature all around them. She sensed his love and appreciation in turn, she heard his humming in her ears. When she sang, she sang with their god, and she knew he was good.

She often asked her son if he ever felt the same. Was there an act that brought him close to their god? But he bit his tongue. He never talked about the rush of joy and pride that flowed through his veins whenever he pulled a successful prank, the ringing melodic laughter as he struggled to hold in his own chortles when he watched the leaders of his kin struggle to wade through their flooded meeting room, slipping on the slick stone floor.

He'd gathered that water by the bucketful from the river. His mother's river. The river she couldn't walk out of. Her veritable prison.

That was the mark of their god.

It kept her from following his kin when they dragged him off with firm grips to his "lessons"-- where to strike to make it hurt, the stupidity of outsiders, religious propaganda that she always untangled when he returned again to her riverbank. It kept her trapped under sheets of ice every winter, unable to touch him. Unable to protect him. Leaving his head swarming with thoughts like clouds of bees until the thaw came, and with it her diffusal of the poison they left. It kept her from the front lines, too-- the one thing he was grateful for. Unlike the other adults, she was safe from being sent out to fight for their righteous cause.

But it also kept her from being able to run. When the dry season came and the waters receded, when his mother moved from the sliver of the river's remains to the lakebed upstream as she did each year, when the sun set on an average day and brought in the night… it brought with it a reckoning. A reckoning for his kin. And his mother was caught in the crossfire.

Everything burned. Feral shrieks, clanging swords, gasping breaths, crackling wood, smoke billowing up and up and up to the sky, blocking out the stars. The feel of his mother's hands as he tried to tug her onward, tried to guide her to the shallow creek, a shadow of her river. Too shallow. Her pleading voice, her trembling shoulders, her tear-stained face. Her scales as she brushed his fur, as she leaned forward… Her last kiss against his forehead. The look in her eyes as he finally took her advice and ran-- as he _left her behind, trapped._

That was the mark of her god.

… He left her.

He ran as fast and far as he could. Through the valley, over the mountains, into a small town where everyone glared at him. Where everyone spat at his feet and called him a freak, "one of those feral nutjobs." Where he had to hide and sneak and steal-- her god's warm presence at his side, amused by his sly antics when he shouldn't be, this was _his_ fault-- he had _no right,_ he didn't know _anything!_ All he had was that failure of a god and the phantom of an idea-- his mother's musings on her homeland, the vast forest his kin thrived in before their hearts turned sour and they moved for further seclusion hidden under the veneer of "freedom."

The swaths of redwood trees surrounding fields of flowers, the sparkling clear river that joined hands with the vast, colorful ocean, the bumbling bees, the frisky foxes, all of the wildlife critters that thrived in their own beautiful system-- a system his mother had always felt lucky to have been a part of. A system she wished he could have seen, could have joined as well.

It was a wish he felt almost obligated to fulfill.

So he traveled. Alone.

He weaved through trees, climbed up peaks, and crossed vast sands. He followed his mother's memories and maps he managed to steal-- and boy did he steal. He stole anything of use. He hid from strangers' judgement and struck when opportunity presented so he could have what he needed to survive.

And if, occasionally, he took a little more, placed a few traps as he left, caused a little chaos to hear that melodic laughter, to feel a presence that didn't hate him, even if he hated _it…_ Well… No one had to know.

It wasn't like anyone would ever _ask._

… And it wasn't like that lasted long, either. By the time he'd finally reached his mother's homeland and looked out at the landscape as the sun rose over the horizon, by the time he'd cried into the grass because _he just wanted his mom she should've been there with him but he ran away like a coward and some small stupid part of him and still thought still hoped that he'd find her here but she was **gone,**_ by the time he'd settled down and made a shelter and set traps all throughout the forest, by the time he'd come to see this land as home, and by the time he'd made it infamous from his pranks that kept travelers out and unsettled those that lived at the forest's edge…

He left him.

His mother's god's presence disappeared. Their bond snapped. He was left with her god's mark, yet he didn't even have her god anymore.

He didn't think there were words for the emotion that left him with.

But he survived. He lived. One day after another. Alone.

So no, Fundy had never been allowed to be a child. He was a pawn. He was a coward. He was a _beast._ He was a survivor. Never a child.

And on this particular day, Fundy stalked through her forest, bow in hand, keen eyes on the lookout for… something. The breeze had brushed past his nose and carried with it the scent of something upwind, a strange, sickly, sweaty smell. A person? An intruder? He followed the trail. The sun filtering in through the leaves of the trees was warm on his back. He stepped lightly, not allowing the underbrush to crinkle beneath his weight. All birdsong had ceased, the chittering of squirrels had fallen silent, all sounds of life… His vulpine ears swiveled back, and his eyes widened. He had finally found the source.

Fundy had never been allowed to be a child, but in this moment… he felt like he came close. He did not know how to… approach this situation like an adult would.

A strange man was lying face down in the leaf litter. A beaten-up guitar on his back. Bedraggled clothes, tangled hair, pale, papery, dirt-smudged skin. Completely silent.

How does an adult respond to randomly finding a corpse?

… Poke it with a stick?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst. Hey. Hey Fundy. He's not Dead. Anyway yeah the ending was a bit rushed but whatever. Things are gonna Happen soon, trust me.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd also like to give a shout out to Between Dreams and Memories - A DreamSMP Retelling by Salty_Sam. I haven't listed it as directly inspiring this story because I don't want to be presumptuous and because my current vibes are that my story is going to go off in a bit of a different direction-- like, there aren't enough common elements for me to link our stories together like that. But it is thanks to that story that I got the general ideas for Dissociative Wilbur and a Central Lore Connecting DreamSmp stuff with Other Videos (though my Lore is shaping up to be very different from hers). Anyway yeah, go read it! It's good!


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